


The Neon Bars of Serendipity

by kincaidian



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Now with added Christmas cheer!, Sadly not as cute as it sounds, Schmoop isn't illegal you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:55:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kincaidian/pseuds/kincaidian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now with new added schmoopy goodness! What can I say, this author is a sucker for happy endings. </p>
<p> </p>
<p>At first, there are five cats, a quartermaster, and an agent. Q thinks that in a perfect world, that would have been the recipe for a happy ending, wrapped up in a bow. As it is, sometimes he wishes he'd shot them all before he got too attached.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> No, it's not as cute as it sounds and I can't apologize enough for that.

At first, there are five cats.

"Specifically, they're four kittens and one cat, but I'll let your inaccuracy slide," Q tells Bond, as the agent looms over them, a disdainful godlike figure in the horizon. 

Bond rolls his eyes a little, just a miniature flicker of an expression. Q thinks it may even be a tic, for all he knows of Bond's repertoire of reactions. "Either way, there are cats in your department. I was under the impression that creatures with an IQ of single digits would combust upon entrance."

Q looks up at him sharply and yes, there it is, the barest ghost of a smile just playing along 007's lips. Q resists the urge to throw his hands in the air in celebration, and settles for pushing his glasses up his nose. "Cats are highly intelligent animals," he defends. 

Bond's blue eyes shed their glacial sheen and light up with amusement. "Careful there." He deadpans, looking utterly carefree and approachable and _human._ Q is doomed. "You may have competition. I hear that espionage is a game that belongs to a new generation."

"I'll have to keep my wits about me." Q says dryly, and looks back down at the bundle of fur and ungrown limbs, the mother cat blinking knowingly up at him.

*

"They're like the branch mascot," Harriet explains to him, cuddling the mother cat closer. "Everyone knows Juliet here."

Behind them, Bond snorts.  

Q ignores him with aplomb. "So we just...keep them?" he asks doubtfully.

Harriet beams. "Pretty much." she makes the cat wave a paw at Q. "Say hello to daddy, Juliet."

Once she's flounced away, Q busies himself with not looking at Bond. Bond clears his throat.

"Not a word." Q says rigidly, trying to hide his blush.

Bond raises his hands in mock surrender. "I just hope you're taking your fatherhood seriously, Q." he says gravely. "Maybe you should name them."

"I am not naming kittens, Bond!" Q yells furiously, and 007 retreats, chuckling.

Q watches him go until Moneypenny clears her throat pointedly from behind. "Distracted, are we, Q?" She spots the kittens, and looks delighted. "And you have children, too! How domestic of you and 007. I didn't pin him for the type."

"Fuck off and die," Q says bitterly.

*   

The first to go is the mother.

Barely two weeks into Q's discovery and a full three months after his unenviable introduction to the world of espionage in the form of an agent, M, and a bloody big old house up in Scotland, he trundles by the familiar nook where the young family of cats is tucked away and notices that the mother isn't there. 

He thinks nothing of it, just bends down and looks at the kittens. They try to peer up at him with their not-quite-open-yet eyes, and he delivers the obligatory stroke on each's head. 

The  next morning, his brisk walk for his first cup of Earl Grey has dwindled down to a zombie-like shuffle. He didn't actually go home the day previous, and having 007 repeatedly nearly get shot through the intercom and typing so fast his fingers blurred is beginning to take its toll.

Harriet's on her knees near the wall as he stumbles back out of the kitchen after sprinkling the entire kitchen floor with sugar in an attempt to aim the spoon at his mug.

He raises his eyebrows. 

When she looks up at him, her eyes are dangerously swimmy. "Their mother," she sayys, and bites her lip. "I think she got shot."

Q blinks at her. "Pardon?"

Her mascara blots a little. This, Q thinks, swaying a little with exhaustion, was more like what he pictured when he first got recruited. Pretty girls with their makeup running, looking up at him through their eyelashes pleadingly, that sort of thing. 

"When Dunning came in." Q's too tired to make the connection; away from his station, his brain feels soft and woolly, no razor-sharp wires running from one point to the next, thoughts like quicksilver. Away from his computer and the immediate call of duty, he feels more human than ever. Whoever this Dunning fellow is, he's going to have to live with the fact that MI6's quartermaster can't remember who he is at short notice. 

"He was aiming at the cats?" Q asks, a little belatedly. "What was he trying to do, shoot at our ankles?"

Harriet just looks at him, as if realizing that her chief of department was rather slow. "Well...yes."

Q nodded, and tries to look as if that makes perfect sense to him. "Right. Of course he was." he sees her opening her mouth, and adds quickly, "So what are we to do with the kittens?"

But before she can reply, more of his underlings come running, yelling something about 007 getting stabbed with a popsicle stick, and Q's mind, inevitably, veers away from the bundles of fur for the time being. 

*

Bond looks perturbed as he comes into Q Branch to hand in the debris of his equipment. "Q," he says, "there's a box near your office."

Q keeps typing. "No wonder your observational skills mark you out, I never would've noticed on my own." he raises his head in time to catch Bond's smirk. "Tell me, 007, how many of my expensive, carefully-designed equipment do I have the pleasure of seeing in shattered pieces today?" 

Bond turns over what used to be Q's most promising prototype of a long-range gun with a tracking device affixed, and Q nearly bursts into tears then and there. 

"Holy hell, Bond." he says faintly. 

Bond has the grace to look mildly ashamed.

"The kittens," Bond says, in an obvious attempt to sidetrack him from the inevitable rant. "Where's the primary caregiver?"

Q looks at him for a long moment, and then slumps. It's been a long week. "That would be me." he mumbles. "Their mother died."

Bond's eyes widen a little. Q wonders  whether the mask really slipped, or whether that little display was just for his benefit. Probably the latter. 

He wonders then, how exactly 007 must see him. A boy, certainly; Bond can surely see his self-confidence and the blush of infatuation. His brilliance, maybe. He wonders whether Bond views him as the sort to mourn the death of a cat and the abandonment of her offspring.

"And now you plan to raise them?" Bond asks, and there is something indefinable in his tone, something showing through the shards of glass in his eyes. 

Q unconsciously tilts his head up, and stares the agent down. "I plan to give them a fighting chance."

Bond smiles. Q's heart stutters. 

*

The first kitten dies a little while after Bond returns from Bolivia with a gunshot wound in his left shoulder to match the one in his right. 

He stands beside Q as the kitten is taken away. Q tries not to think about how 007's still bleeding. 

*

His mother's expert advice and her prescription of lactose-heavy milk powder doesn't stop the second cat from dying, either. Q watches blankly as the kitten is carried away, and thinks of the time he wasted prowling through the shelves of Sainsbury's to find just the right formula for their milk. Bond had showed up halfway into his shopping trip, and helped him scan the boxes with the kind of efficiency Q had only associated with the way he cleaned guns and killed off targets before. 

He looks down at the two remaining kittens. One of them s the runt of the litter, surprisingly, and the strongest. He thinks of his mother saying gently, _they're too young to survive without their mother, you know. You can't save them all, darling._           

"Fighting chance," Bond reminds him. 

Q nods, feeling like his throat's been scraped out. 

Bond keeps looking at him, his gaze holding something warm and soft and precious, and Q swallows, his throat going dry for entirely different reasons. His eyes flick to Bond's mouth, the welcoming curve of them, and his eyes flutter shut.

M comes in then, followed by a swarm of hangers-on and saying something about the Indian Ocean. Bond steps away, his eyes lingering on Q for the briefest moment before he snaps to attention once more.

Q touches his lips. 

*

The next kitten holds out for a solid week, but it's a near thing. It's all skin and bones, and Harriet had abandoned all pretense of working and taken on the role of surrogate mother, bottle-feeding them both and watching over the two remaining kittens obsessively. Q doesn't ask her to return to her work, and even M only looks at her curiously during his visits, meets Q's eye, and refrains from commenting. 

Days are hectic, what with Bond in the Maldives and international liaisons not being what they used to be. Q keeps a wary eye on the box of kittens, who have now begun exploring the parameters of their confinement. He tries not to let slip that he had named them Punch and Judy, despite how they were both male. Bond would never let him live that down. 

And then, the next kitten dies, and just three days later, so does Bond. 

Q doesn't remember much. Just the gunfire through the intercom, Harriet sobbing at his side and Bond saying in a smooth voice, _I'm fine, I'm perfectly fine._

*

The funeral is held on a rainy day, appropriately enough. No one says anything about how the body was never recovered. Nobody says much of anything, huddling close together and looking on in something like disbelief; _men like that don't just_ die.  

Q looks at the dome of black umbrellas and wonders. 

*

He takes the remaining kitten home on a Friday.

His subordinates try to object, citing his schedule and the intensive care the kitten needs. He ignores them all, carefully carrying the box out on his way home. 

The kitten blinks up at him with blue eyes, and Q tells him that everything’s going to be alright. 

*

The kitten, despite its kaleidoscope of physical failings -Q's stopped going to the vet at this point, there's only so many times he can stand being told he was fighting a losing battle, that it was beyond hope- is constantly cheerful, expressing its amusement at Q's pained (and largely unsuccessful) attempts to keep from tripping over it. 

He bumps against Q's feet companiably and seems absolutely delighted with the very fact of Q's existence, taking every opportunity to bat at his bare feet in an affectionate fashion. More often than not, Q finds himself feeding it biscuits and making up stories about Punch, Amazing Ninja Cat while it looks up at him adoringly. 

*

Alex Rider is a field agent, quickly rising up the ranks. He isn't a 00, but it's only a matter of time. 

Alex Rider has big brown eyes that have seen too much and a smile he uses like a blade. That smile's the first thing Q notices about him.

Alex Rider has a way of biting the expanse of Q's throat as he fucks him into the mattress, and when he comes, he makes a sharp, keening cry like he's been hurt. He always kisses Q after, long and thorough, even when Q makes it clear that it's not necessary. 

Alex Rider is tall and young and handsome, and he will break many hearts in his promising career, but Q will break his first. 

*

He comes home one day to find the kitten -two months old now, and everyone's told him he's sure to survive if he made it this far- curled up on his sofa. It makes a hurt noise when Q touches it, this little whimpering cry that feels like a swipe of a dagger against his heart. 

He cries that night, long, choked sobs wracking his body as the kitten makes little sounds of pain. Q cries until he feels wrung out, an empty husk, his temples throbbing, and then he looks down at the kitten, still alive, in his lap and his eyes spill over again, hot tears trailing down his face and falling on to the kitten more often than not.  

He falls asleep like that, staying very still as not to shake any fragile, weightless bones. 

When he wakes up, all his limbs are stiff and protesting, and the kitten is dead. 

This time, he doesn't cry. 

*

Q realizes that Bond isn't coming back a little over a year after the memorial plaque goes up in M's office. 

He's sipping tea in his flat on a rare off-day, watching the sun come in in slanted bars through the window. 

It's a peaceful sort of realization, and it doesn't make him falter. He keeps drinking his Earl Grey, listening to Schumann drifting from his neighbor's radio.

He thinks about how his co-workers step on eggshells around him, orders coming in the form of gentle requests. He thinks about the shade of aquamarine of Bond's eyes as he stepped away that day, the unfulfilled promise of a kiss. Stupid, really, to think he would come back just because he never completed that kiss. 

Q lets out a breath, and feels lighter somehow. 

But something in the back of his mind knows very well about the difference between knowing that Bond is gone and giving up on waiting for him. Q will probably wait for James Bond his entire life. 

He doesn't try to think about how he feels about that. He's content as he is. 

*

Q wakes up in the middle of the night some five months after the celebration of his two years as quartermaster, knowing there is someone else in his flat. 

He tries to keep his footsteps precise and soundless, padding across the floor to pick up his standard issue taser and curious, despite himself. His security is nothing if not elaborate, so that even the most intelligent burglar would have to be highly motivated to break in. 

So he's not at all surprised when he comes into his living room to see James Bond with his hands clasped behind his back, examining a snapshot Q had of the last kitten. 

Q just stands there for a moment, savoring the illusion. He thinks he may be unable to move if he tried, anyway; so he stays very still and drinks in the graceful line of Bond's back, the sharpness of posture that contrasts with the loose hang of his hideous shirt.

"His name was Punch." Q says finally, in a soft voice that seems to echo in the apartment. 

Bond turns to face him slowly, and he's smiling a little. "I presume he had a fighting chance?"

Q smiles back. "True warrior, that one."

They stare at each other then, silence flooding the air between them. Q thinks of the taser and the Beretta he keeps in his drawer. He thinks of kisses that go unfinished for years, and the clear sharp call of _agent down, agent down._

It's impossible to tell what Bond is thinking. 

And then they step towards each other, movement in a dance, perfectly choreographed. Q's heart is beating so loudly it _hurts_ , hammering away at his ribcage.

It's unclear who makes the first move. Maybe Bond leans forward or maybe Q does, but they end up kissing, so it ceases to matter. 

The kiss isn't graceful. It's messy and painful, with teeth clashing and Bond savagely nipping at Q's lower lip and Q pushing forward roughly until he tastes blood. _What took you so bloody long_ and _I nearly died_ and _I know, I'm sorry_ rolled into one. 

No words. None. Q waited for a year for this kiss, and as it takes a turn for the gentle -Bond's hand curling in Q's mop of hair and his other hand tracing the curve of Q's cheekbone, his tongue questing playfully in Q's mouth- that's all it takes.

Q's _happy_.


	2. The Subtle Art of Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written because of the resounding demand for schmoop, and Alex Rider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there were complaints of the world-weary that the fic was too depressing and unseasonal. I retaliate with this.

Q has to work even later than usual to extricate himself from the pile of paperwork M cheerfully dumped on him with just a week left before Christmas. Ever since James Bond reappeared on the radar following a rather unfortunate incident at Hyde Park (a row of park benches will never be the same) M has delighted in assigning Q mounds of menial work, the petty, petty bastard.

On this particular day, Q doesn't even bother to keep his voice to a mumble as he complains about their tyrannical leadership and a government gone mad from power. Eve shoots him glances that might be sympathy, but could pass for irritation just as easily. Q takes every opportunity he can to flip her  off.

Finally, everything's filed and Q's waiting for his printouts to emerge when Eve decides to pounce.     

"Christmas going well, then?" she asks, widening her eyes in a display of (non-existent) innocence.

Q eyes her mistrustfully. "Yes."

She hums, and looks around the Q branch. Q will admit it's a bit too much; when the branch began putting up Christmas decorations, Q himself had joined in this year, instead of trying to get them to exercise control. As a result, the offices looked like the world's tackiest, most cheerful green monster ever seen. Q's rather proud of the sheer volume of tinsel. It's not the most elegant of decorations, but it's trying so hard it's endearing.

Eve smiles at him without warning, and turns to leave. "Have fun playing house with you-know-who!" she calls over her shoulder.

“Have fun dying an old, lonely spinster!” he calls back.

“At least I don’t have to worry about having my house burnt down when I come home!”

Q doesn't even care if he's being unoriginal. He flips her off.

*

Q carries the chill of the air outside with him into the flat. There are muffled clattering noises coming from the kitchen, and Q sighs, bracing himself.

Sure enough, Bond's in the kitchen, skimming over a recipe with a frown creasing his forehead. Q takes a moment to savor the illusion of domesticity before he speaks and makes his presence official.

No matter how many fantasies Q has of Bond in an apron and very little else, he has to admit that James is _terrible_ in the kitchen. He treats simple utensils like pans and forks as weaponry whose primary objective is to explode. He treats them with due caution and mistrust, and very little gets done as a result. Half the time, Q's just thankful he still has a home to call his own after each time Bond turns the oven on.

Today, though, something's off. Bond's at the counter, graciously pretending not to have noticed that Q had come in. He seems almost...relaxed, his posture slack and accommodating.

Q's instantly suspicious.

"James?" he begins, and that's when he notices.

Curled on the counter, regarding Q with an expression of open dislike, is a cat.

It's quite possibly the ugliest cat Q's ever seen. Its coloring is an unusual shade of ginger, but its eyes are beady and narrow, and its face looks oddly squashed, like someone had sat on it.

"James," Q repeats, in a flat tone.

As if taking its cue, the cat sits up, stretches, and pads over to where Bond is leaning against the counter. Q can't help noticing that while it looks tougher than the great (former) 007 himself, it's not very old. Q places it at about a little over four months old.

The cat rubs against Bond's side, keeping an eye on Q. Q rolls his eyes and Bond smirks in turn.

"Alright, 007." He raises his eyebrows challengingly. "How long have you been cheating on me with a cat?"

Bond looks down at the cat, but Q catches the grin before he can hide it. "Monogamy is terribly dull." Bond says breezily. "Throw in retirement, and no one blames me for looking for entertainment elsewhere."

Q looks at him sharply but there's a faint, teasing smile on James' face that says _got you good._ Q flushes a little. He's still adjusting to having Bond's suits hanging in the same closet as his cardigans and the smell of black coffee mixing with Earl Grey in the morning.

The cat meows for attention. Q is utterly unsurprised that it even sounds terrible, grating and high-pitched and off-key.

James says, "It sort of wandered in one day and refused to wander out."

James says, "I realize that cats aren't your favorite animals, but this one seems...endurable."

James says, "She might not even want to stay. She's not terribly domestic."

Q watches as the cat bumps its nose affectionately against James' hand, as if to negate every word James is saying. He raises his eyes to Bond himself, and begins to smile.

"You're in love with that bloody cat," Q sings, delighted. "You've gone and fallen in love with your vicious feline mistress. How _appropriate."_

Bond looks unimpressed. "Q-" he begins.

Q launches himself at him, now laughing outright. There's a light feeling in his chest, like a bird that had been scratching at iron bars finally set free.

He kisses a corner of Bond's mouth and it curves, Bond looking at him with a mix of worry and amusement. Q wants to bottle him up and keep him forever. Q wants to touch every part of him until every line of muscle is seared in Q's memory.

Something scratches his hand before he can get around to doing any of it. He looks down, almost surprised to see the cat.

Q contemplates it in return. It's got nothing of the cherubic beauty of the cats he failed to save a year ago. It looks neither endearingly frail nor precocious. It looks, in fact, like a tough bastard with a bad attitude and a knack for survival.

"Of course we're keeping you, you little monster." Q says, and pushes it unceremoniously on the counter so that James can lift him off his feet and sit him in its place.

James crowds into him, stepping between his thighs, and murmurs against his neck, "Any ideas for names?"

Q's head tips back as James nips at the curve off his collarbone. "We'll think of something. We've got-" he gasps, as James licks at the hollow of his throat, "We've got all the time in the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And a cameo by Alex Rider:
> 
> Q waits for him in the hallway, and that's how Alex will come to know him best; fiddling with the buttons of his loose-fitting jacket, looking faintly cold and out of place illuminated by anything other than the glow of his monitor.
> 
> Q, with a smile twisting his pretty mouth, sharp, sharp. Q's eyes drifting past Alex's shoulder  when he says his name. Always looking surprised when there wasn't anyone there. Just Alex.
> 
> Q reading the paper with a mug of Earl Grey in the morning while Alex hunts his flat for orange juice and comes up empty. Q, gesturing vigorously as he makes a point, eyes flashing and bright.
> 
> Q mumbles in code when he's asleep, when he's so tired  his eyelashes brush his cheek with every breath he takes. It makes Alex wonder if Q _thinks_ in code.
> 
> Pitying looks from the desk staff, some hostile, particularly that bitch from M's office.  Whispers when he's coming in to handle paperwork; _he's still totally gone on 007, you know._
> 
> Q, haunting graveyards by night, pale-skinned and lovely, waiting for his lover to rise from the dead. Alex thinks it's sort of ridiculous. It makes him depressed, too.
> 
> Q's nothing if not brilliantly alive, controlled wildfire, quicksilver running along a specific track. Alex just regrets that there's no one alive who can make Q see that. 

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who might recognize him; I listed Alex Rider as an OMC, mainly because my version of him might as well be. But. It feels wrong to write a British spy fic without mixing him in. 
> 
> Feel (very) free to leave everything by way of feedback, as I hardly know what the hell I'm talking about here.


End file.
